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I don’t remember much about my life prior to foster care. I was so young when they took me away. All I know for certain is that I was taken from my parents by social services when I was only three years old, and I was deemed a ward of the state. I made my own assumptions over the years and I’ve found a certain comfort in those assumptions that I’m not willing to part with.
Most of the homes I lived in were awful, but in the last and longest home I lived in, things weren’t so bad. Or at least that’s what I thought in the beginning. Over the span of a year though, everything changed. All of it. And in one night? It all went up in flames.
All those years ago, I tried like hell to protect her. I tried to devise a plan that would save her, but I took too long. She couldn’t bear another moment of the torment, and in the heat of the moment, we ran without a plan. Then I ended up being the reason she was taken. I was a coward, a failure, and it cost her everything.
She was the one person who counted on me, needed me, and I let her down. I will never, ever let myself forget it either. If I allow my mind to slow down long enough, allow the voices in my head to quiet, I can still hear her screams. So I live in a perpetual hell of my own making, where I torture myself, seeking a redemption that will never come, for the terrible things that I’ve done.
Tattooing is my escape from it all, hacking fills the empty time, and Riot… Riot fills the fucking void. But love? I can’t let myself fall. It’s all just a means to an end anyway. Eating up my time until this life is over.
Sighing, I turn my machine off and lean back in my chair. A small smile of satisfaction tugs at the corner of my lips as I wipe my client’s arm gently and admire my work.
Ray is a regular and he always gives me full creative freedom with my art. The demonic entity I just tattooed on his forearm is so dope, and it fits perfectly into the heaven and hellscape sleeve he’s had me working on for a couple of years now. It’ll be a masterpiece when it’s completed. All intricate line-work, and bright, bold colors that make the scene leap off of his skin.
“Fucking sick, Zeke,” he grins as he sits up in the chair.
We run down the aftercare routine fairly quickly because Ray is a pro at this point. Then I pull off my gloves and trash them, sliding my black-rimmed glasses onto the top of my head as we chat, and walk up to the front of the shop.
“Listen, I’m thinking we finish this bad boy up next month, maybe?”
“Yeah man, I’m down,” I agree.
“Alright, I need you to work the angels into the scene, but like, put your 'Zeke' spin on that shit. Make it a surprise too. I don’t even want to see it until I’m in the chair.”
“You got it,” I beam.
I truly live for tattooing, and while some artists are really insistent about only tattooing their own work, I’m more than happy to tattoo anything on a client that they want. But my clients like Ray, who give me total free reign and artistic freedom? I really live for that shit.
We spitball some dates, ultimately settling on 6 weeks away, and I fill in my calendar.
Ray leaves, and I lock the door behind him before heading back to my station to clean up the mess. Riot should be here soon, but he has a key to let himself in, so I turn up the music not worried about having to listen for his arrival.
As I begin picking up the waste and cleaning my tools, I let my thoughts wander. I never meant to become so tempted by anyone, but something about Riot West has had me hooked from the moment I first met him, in this very studio. Maybe it was his smile, or the contrast of soft, dark stubble on his chin, or the mystery that hides behind his bright baby blues. I’m not sure. But years later, when the opportunity knocked, I was more than happy to answer.
I didn’t even think twice, though I may have made him squirm first.
“Zeke, I need help.”
“What kind of help?” I muse, picturing him squirming on the other end of the phone.
“The kind of help only you can provide,” he starts.
I met Riot when he came in to have some work done, and I’ve grown obsessed with him over the last couple of years. Obsessed on an unhealthy level. I look forward to every appointment so I can peel back another layer while I have him trapped beneath my machine.
I’ve learned so many things about him over the years, including details about his traumatic past. The horrible fucked up shit that no kid should have to endure. Somehow he still managed to push through, and build himself a life without letting all of it swallow him whole. He didn’t lose himself to the demons, he conquered them, and I found myself aching to conquer the conqueror.
“The Brotherhood hacker was… a problem. We need someone good, and we need someone now,” his hushed voice filters through the phone.
“And what’s in it for me?”
“I - well, you’ll get paid well. Very well.”
“Yeah, I’m not worried about the money Riot. Have you seen my clientele? I mean, I’ll take it but I don’t need it. I know what the Brotherhood does, so what incentive do I have to get involved with all that?”
He sighs, pausing before responding, “What do you want?”
“I think you know what I want,” I chuckle.
I’ve made it known more than once how much I ache to get him beneath me, and I’m not talking about beneath my machine. He shies away from my advances every time, but I’ve seen the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The way his eyes roam my body while I’m etching into his skin.
